


one step at a time

by Squishy_TRex



Category: Constantine (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 19:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5468057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squishy_TRex/pseuds/Squishy_TRex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They come together, step by step.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one step at a time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cuits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuits/gifts).



The first step Angela Dodson takes is to bury the Spear of Destiny in the grave where her sister would be. Her church won’t let Isabel be buried in their cemetery; she’s still a suicide who’s not worthy of their consecrated ground.

Fine. As far as Angela’s concerned they can keep it. She wants her sister close anyway. So she finds a small blue vase and keeps Isabel’s ashes there, right on the dresser next to a picture of their parents. And every day after, she brushes her fingers gently against the smooth ceramic and whispers a “good morning” to her. It’s not the same, won’t ever be the same (what can she do, really, to make up for leaving Isabel behind?), but at least she’s trying. One step at a time.

The next step she takes is to quit her job.

* * *

It’s exactly 1,457 steps between her apartment and John Constantine’s. She knows because she counted them as she walked over there. And she walked over there because she thought it would give her enough time to figure out what to say to him.

It still wasn’t enough time. There should’ve been more steps.

She knocks a little too loudly, earning the disapproving glare from an elderly woman down the hall, cat hissing in her arms. Angela fights the urge to glare back.

It takes two more minutes of waiting and knocking and feigning politeness towards rude old ladies, but his door finally opens. She’s surprised he opened the door. She’s also surprised he bothers to talk to her.

“Why are you here?” he asks, his normally bored, sarcastic tone sounding unusually melancholy. Angela blinks in surprise. This isn’t what she expected. A slammed door, yes.  A sarcastic remark with a cigarette hanging off the edge of a rueful grin, absolutely.

That’s the Constantine she met. The Constantine she took the steps to know. This Constantine….haggard, heavy bags under his eyes, cigarette nowhere to be found…he’s miles away from what she knows. And taking it all in, it more than surprises her, it scares her.

He blows out a sigh, looking as if he might collapse right in front of her (which would look great to the old lady who’s still out in the hallway).

“I’m only going to ask one more time: Why are you here?” She doesn’t have the right answer for him, even after walking all this way, so she says the first thing that comes to mind.

“To see you.” This time he’s the one surprised. And now she knows the slammed door is coming. But yet again he defies expectations and lets it swing wide open.

She steps inside.

* * *

She only has to take five steps inside to realize it’s worse than she thought.

Much worse.  

The apartment is an absolute disaster zone in every sense of the word. Dishes are piled up in and alongside the sink (and a few other places that she wasn’t even aware dishes could fit), trash (mostly newspapers, which Angela has no explanation for, and empty packages of what, at first glance, seem to be nicotine patches) litters the bare floor. Furniture, what little there is, looks like it was arranged by a tornado that took up interior decorating. And then there are the bottles. Of various shapes and sizes, a few still full, some half-empty, too many that are completely empty.

Angela’s frozen in shock for a moment until she hears the door slam and Constantine move behind her.

She turns around just in time to see him, with an upsetting facsimile of his usual sarcastic grin, spread his arms wide (there are stains on his shirt, a few that look suspiciously like booze mixed with blood and there’s a tug inside her that feels suspiciously like guilt) and says,

“Welcome back to my humble abode. Careful where you step, I have everything just the way I like it.”

They stare at each other for a moment, her gaze slowly shifting from shocked to a cool, cold fury. He loses the contest, mouth twitching minutely like he’s going to say something, but just frowns instead and shrugs (as if none of this matters, like he doesn’t _care_ ).

“Fine. I’d rather not talk anyway,” he says and grabs a nearby long-necked bottle, deftly unscrewing the cap with ease that makes Angela uneasy. But also angry. And that’s always been the more powerful emotion in her arsenal.

Before she’s even aware of it, her body’s in motion, taking quick paced steps forward and snatching the bottle out of his hands right before he can drink a single drop.  She barely notices his shocked expression as she resolutely marches over to the kitchen and throws out the dishes where they crash and break onto the floor.

It’s dramatic, but if he wants to be childish so will she.

So she pours the contents of the bottle down the now empty kitchen sink.

“Hey!” he says, starting to walk towards her (more like stumbling, Angela knows now that this wasn’t going to be his first drink of the day).  He reaches her just as the last of the liquid swirls down the drain and feebly tries to grab the bottle.

She whirls around and pushes him back, watches him stumble over the shards on the floor until he lands among them. Angela’s face is contorted in fury, angrier now than she was when he was just a chain smoking asshole who wouldn’t help her sister.

But she’d managed to persuade him to do that; she can get him to do this too.

“Look, I don’t care what your problem is, what exactly made you decide to go off the deep end, but it stops right here and right now,” she says, her bad cop voice coming out to play. He looks at her like he doesn’t recognize her. He tries to challenge her gaze but comes up empty and it’s the flash of hurt and pain in his eyes before he looks away that gets to her.

Her face softens and she sighs, long and heavy.

“Come on,” she says and holds out her hand for him to grab. “Let’s get up and walk this off.”

He stares at her hand for a moment, glances at her, then back at the hand. An eternity passes in those three seconds and she can see something shift, a choice being made.

He takes her hand.

* * *

It’s Constantine’s first step and he hates it. Angela knows this because he won’t stop saying as much.

“I hate this,” he tells her for approximately the hundredth time that day. She only rolls her eyes.

“Stop complaining and help me clean up,” she says, forcefully grabbing three more empty bottles and throwing them in the trash bag. “We still have to go buy you new dishes after this.”

“Yeah, only because you decided to barge in and break all of mine,” he retorts. Although, despite the complaining, he is actually cleaning. “By the way, I’m not paying for them. You broke ‘em, you buy ‘em.” At this point, Angela would genuinely believe her eyes have the power to roll right out of her sockets from the force.

“Why’d you do it?” he asks, after a quiet moment of no conversation, only clinking bottles and rustling plastic and avoiding footsteps.

Angela snorts. "Break your dishes? Thought I was being pretty clear.”

He shakes his head.

“No, come over here. Why’d you do it?”

She stops short, a mostly empty bottle of vodka dangling from her fingers. So many possible answers run through her mind (she wishes she could pace, step out how to approach this possible minefield). But she goes with the simple approach.

“I need your help,” she admits. 

He looks up at her, finally, eyebrows raised. She purses her lips. It’s only half of a whole truth, but it works for now. Angela knows this because his face goes from wary to a something resembling a crooked grin. 

“You want back in?” She looks away. He only grins wider. “You actually want to use your powers.” It’s a bit unnerving, seeing him…joyful?...after seeing him so despondent not too long ago. “Get to know the underworld of Los Angeles. Maybe save a few people. Is that what you were hoping for?”

“I quit my job,” she says, hoping her words will divert him from his series of demeaning snarky responses. This was a serious step she was taking and she'd be damned if he was going to belittle her about it. 

“So will you help me or not?” Angela asks and winces slightly as the question comes out more venomously than she anticipated. Constantine's grin shrinks into a smirk and walks over to her, a slight more surety in his step. Something in her wonders if he likes it when she stands up to him. 

“Fine. Not like I’ve got anything better to do now that I’m supposed to be redeemed.” He grabs a mostly full bottle of Jack Daniels and gives it a longing look before tossing it in her trash bag.

“But you’re still buying me new dishes.”

* * *

Stepping into Papa Midnite’s club is both nothing and exactly what Angela expected.

It’s bizarre, how alien the lengthening shadows, pulsing music, vicious whispers, and drifting smoke feels. And yet there’s something…familiar about it all. Like she’s supposed to be here.

As if all the half-breeds and supernatural creatures and psychics here are projecting a sense of kinship. Kinship she’s been missing for a long time. Maybe her whole life.

She’s not going to think about it too hard.

They get in easily enough (easier than she expected honestly, although Constantine _did_ receive some threatening glares from the bouncers) and weave through the various patrons with relative ease. There’s certainly attention paid their way, but Angela doesn’t have to be a genius to know that ignoring it’s the best option.

Besides, it’s probably due to whatever reckless or

The two of them make head all the way to the back, in the area reserved for the patron. She’s heard about him, bits and pieces from Constantine and has already assumed it’s not enough to get a clear picture.

She’s right, of course. His back is to them when they enter the wide open office-like (as office-like as it can be when there’s a vague supernatural aesthetic infusing the atmosphere; she particularly likes the pair of scaled wings in the right corner) area, bent over a table that seems to be scattered with a variety of dried herbs.

“Constantine, Constantine. How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of my club? The balance is restored, you don’t have any reason to be here.” He turns to them and Angela can see the sharp and almost hungry gaze in his eyes. It seems to be a trait among the angels and demons and other creatures of the underworld; that constant search for a little something _more._

Constantine holds his hands up. “I was in the neighborhood. Haven’t seen you in a while” He gestures to his left. “And I just wanted to introduce you to Angela.” Papa Midnite raises and eyebrow and nods knowingly.

“The psychic.” His questing gaze hovers over her. She just stares back coolly. He smiles widely. “The powerful one that Mammon wanted. Seems to be more resilient than he expected, eh?”

She pointedly ignores the answering smile Constantine directs her way.

“She’s certainly full of surprises. Figured it was time to officially introduce you too, now that she’s officially joining our ranks.” At this point, Angela is afraid her chronic eye-rolling is going to become a nervous twitch.

“Hmmm,” Midnite responds. “What else do you want?” Angela smirks as Constantine feigns offense.

 “Me? Like I said, I’m just here to introduce you to my good friend Angela.”

“And?”

“And to give you a fair warning that I’m probably going to get in a fight with the demonic half-breed at the bar if Angela can’t successfully interrogate him.” Her eyes widen and she swivels to face him.

“Wha-“

“Better get to it, before he wises up and leaves.” And with that he exits the room and she’s alone with Papa Midnite. She just sighs, maybe a tad too dramatically.

 “Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on him,” she promises. Midnite just laughs.

“I’d tell you good luck. But I believe you already know you’ll need it.” She sends him one last smile before following Constantine out the door.

* * *

The next step in her training is much more stressful than she wanted.

“You’ve got to focus more.”

Angela grits her teeth.

“I am focused.” Constantine shakes his head.

“No. You’re concentrating too hard.” She sighs and opens her eyes.

“How am I supposed to focus if I don’t concentrate?” Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she can feel the nervous energy is thrumming through her. This’ll be the first time she purposefully summons a vision and with her abilities (at least, from what Constantine has assured, which really shouldn’t be that assuring) she should be able to do it on her own.

“Like this,” he says as he sits in front of her, mirroring her position. He holds out his hands. Angela gives him a look of disbelief.

“Come on, I know what I’m doing.” Her look only increases in suspicion. He sighs. “You’re the one who asked for my help.” She takes her turn to sigh and reluctantly places her hands in his. The warmth of his surprisingly smooth palms does little to calm her down.

“Just follow my lead. Close your eyes and breathe when I breathe.” Inwardly, she’s still skeptical, but listens to him anyway. It takes a few moments of silent breathing, but they start to find a rhythm.

As her breathing becomes in tune with his, they slow down together and the warmth she felt in his palms has spread into hers, up her arms, and settled in her chest. It’s strange how _normal_ it feels, to be this close, connected by only their hands.

“Now, when you think you’re ready, just let go and allow yourself to feel everything around you,” he says quietly. His voice has taken on a calming intonation; she finds it comforting, like a blanket she could stay wrapped up in. And so she listens and lets go.

Nothing happens at first. And then, she gasps slightly at the feeling, there’s a trickle of feeling, of awareness. Soft, fuzzy images filter in her mind.

“Careful,” he whispers. “Don’t try to take it all in at once. Too much and you’ll be overwhelmed. I know a few psychics who’ve become catatonic that way.” She nods imperceptibly and breathes deeply. As she keeps calm, the images become a bit more clear and she can hear things now.

But with the added noises comes an intimate tug, like she’s being pulled into the vision. She winces at the sensation, but the tug persists, the noises growing louder, the images sharpening into a young girl, she’s crying, loudly, she’s-

Constantine squeezes Angela’s hands tightly and pulls her close. Her eyes fly open and it all disappears. Gasping, her body shuddering, she realizes she’d been holding her breath.

“Hey, hey, Angela, look at me.” She hears him and looks up. Constantine’s face is unusually relaxed and he’s smiling softly at her.

“That was good. We’ll just take it slow, keep going from here,” he says, still speaking quietly. Still smiling. And Angela suddenly becomes aware of how close they are, hands still wrapped together. The heat fills her up, bursting from her chest and spreading into her face. She lets go of his hands quickly and sees his smile drops.

Angela stands up and moves away, creating some distance between them and breaking the moment.

* * *

The sixth step she takes into Constantine’s apartment is one step too many and she stumbles to the side, hitting the wall. A pair of strong hands gently grip her shoulders and carefully pull her up.

“Easy, Dodson, you’re ok.” Constantine pulls her to him and just because she’s exhausted (and still bleeding) she lets him

She only groans in response. He chuckles, the vibrations echoing against her.

“Hey, cheer up. You did much better against that demon half-breed than I expected.” She snorts weakly.

“Full of surprises, remember,” she responds. Carefully detaching herself from his arms (and even amidst the pain, she can feel whatever blood she has left rushing to her face), she props herself up against the wall, in a much more manageable position than before.

Angela looks at Constantine looking at her and takes in his bloodied, disheveled appearance. There’s a deep cut on his shoulder that made it through the trench coat and shirt, blood soaking both fabrics.

“You got hurt.” He shrugs.

“Why’d you do it?” she asks, not accepting such nonchalance in this moment.

“Wasn’t on purpose, I promise,” he says. She shakes her head.

“No, why’d you come.? Why’d you help? You,” she groans in pain. “didn’t have to.” She sees his expression shift to the softer one that has been coming out more often than she’s used to.

“We’re friends,” he says and she can feel the world tilt. Friends. Maybe it’s the blood loss. Maybe it’s his words. But she immediately thinks back to the hospital, how close she was to him, how he ultimately pushed her away, leaving her alone with the Spear, letting her walk aw-

“Friends,” she croaks out, feeling a bit more blood slide down her arm.

“Yeah, hey, c’mere you’re still bleeding.” She sees him reach out for her and no, no, no. She can’t do this right now. Not while her adrenaline is still up and she’s vulnerable enough to let herself go, to push him a little more, to say _yes_ to that unanswered question between them.

Instead, she steps aside, holding herself up to keep from stumbling again. And without looking back at him she walks away

* * *

She’s running, not walking this time.

They took him. In the back of her mind, she should’ve expected this. With his history and her meddling it was bound to happen.

Fortunately, her powers have been getting better. She knows exactly where he is and with the banishing spell Papa Midnite gave her, it should be enough to save him.

As usual, she’s right. The abandoned warehouse is cliché and familiar in structure to ones she had to investigate as a cop. So it doesn’t take long to find him, tied to a chair, face swollen and beaten, much more blood visible than she ever wanted to see.

It hurts to see. She knew it would, but the pain at him looking so broken hits her like a hammer, thunders through her like a storm. The demons are coming at her, but she can’t see them. Without even having to think, she uses the banishing spell, timing it just right and in an instant they’re gone.

She gives herself a mental reminder to thank Papa Midnite after this. But right now she just runs towards Constantine’s prone form. Her heart almost stops at the thought that, from this distance, it doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.

“John!” she yells as she reaches him, falling to her knees as she tugs at his bonds. Relief fills her like a flood when she hears a very male groan of pain. When she finally gets him untied, she pulls him close, cradling his head in her hands.

“Angela?” he mumbles. She nods, barely able to speak. Seeing him in this state brings every confusing, loving, upsetting feeling for him together in a tumultuous swirl.

“Yeah, it’s me.” She is barely able to keep the “you idiot” part of that sentence. “Hey, hey look at me, ok?” She can see him try to focus on her, but his eyes keep fluttering closed. He needs to get out of here. Now.

Angela slaps him slightly. He groans again, his eyes staying open a bit longer.

“Hey, come on, we have to get out of here.” She swallows. “Please, John, I need you to walk. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, yeah, Ang, I think I can do that. Just, uh, don’t let go. Not sure I can stand on my own,” he says. Angela nods.

“Don’t worry, I’m not letting you go.” She can see him struggle to smirk at him; he plans to make her pay for that remark later. Together they struggle to get up and carefully walk out of the building and into the night.

* * *

Pacing back and forth is less constructive for Angela than it usually is. Probably because she’s doing it in a hospital waiting room. He’d protested, but there was absolutely no way in heaven or hell that she wasn’t going to take him to a doctor. It had already been over an hour since she brought him in

Thankfully she doesn’t have to wait much longer, as a small hand gently grabs her shoulder, halting her pacing. The nurse smiles, which immediately placates Angela’s nervousness.

“He’s going to be fine. Bruised ribs and needed some stitches, but he’ll live. He’ll have one hell of a headache but as long as he has you to look after him, he can go home,” she says. Angela nods barely hearing any of it other than “he’s going to be fine.” She follows the nurse down the hallway and when they reach his room, the familiar sight of his dark hair and dirty trench coat making her happier than they had any right to.

He catches her eye and smiles again, the smirk blending with the soft into something wholly new. She sighs; he can’t keep catching her off guard like this.

“You here to break me out?” he asks. She sighs. Thanks to Constantine, Angela has a shot at being the Olympic champion of eye-rolling. But she smiles back at him anyway.

“Let’s go home.” That one gets her a full blown grin.

* * *

They don’t say anything as they walk into his apartment together. This time there isn’t anything to say, anymore steps to take. This time, she knows exactly what she wants to say, how to say it. Nothing more to figure out.

He closes the door and as soon as he turns around, she pulls him to her and kisses him. No misses, no waiting around. Stiff for only a second, he quickly gets the idea and pulls her into him, deepening the kiss.

“John.” His name barely comes out as a whisper on her lips. Her fingers lightly rub circles against his chest. She doesn’t get any farther than that as he captures her lips again. Rubbing up against a bruise causes him to hiss in pain. Angela frowns and pull back, looks up into his face.

“You ok?” He nods to her, but looks away briefly before looking back at her.

“You want this?” he asks, voice deeper than she’s heard before. She smirks at him, at the wariness that wants to settle on his face.

“Yeah, I do.” And she tugs him back into the bedroom with her, softly kissing him all the way.

* * *

Angela wakes up to the feel of strong arms around her waist. She’s slotted perfectly against John’s chest and they’re breathing in time again. Without even having to try this time.

She waits a little while, expecting that feeling of nervousness to appear, to goad her into leaving. Tilting her head up a little, she gently bumps against his chin. She’s completely molded to him, like they were supposed to fit this way. And it feels right. So she lets herself settle into him and smiles.

This time she doesn’t walk away.

* * *

 

 “Hellblazer Investigations?” Angela makes a face as she looks up at their new office. She looks over at John.

“Isn’t that a little on the nose?” He shrugs.

“I never pegged us for subtle,” he says, taking her hand. Threading their fingers together he presses a quick kiss to it. She rolls her eyes; of course he’d turn out to be the sappier one.

“Well, I guess it could be worse,” she tells him, going for an feigned unaffected tone. He smiles at her.

 “Better get started,” she says. “Not like the cases are going to solve themselves.” He snorts.

“No, that would be much too easy,” he responds. “That’s never been our style.” They walk up the steps and he opens the door.

“After you,” he says to her with a grin.

She smiles in kind and pulling her with him, they step inside together. It’s not the first step and if she has it her way, it definitely won’t be the last.


End file.
